Work…Streets…Guns…Prayer

I drove by the projects to see who was out. I was a street worker. It was late, active, and noisy. Lots of hanging out at the intersection. They drank liquor and smoked pot. And danced to music that blasted out of cars illegally parked on the sidewalk. "What's up?" I asked "Nothing, T." I stuck around. I watched from the steps of an apartment building. My grandmother and I once lived there. The guys rapped free-style. They battled. And with every good punch line the crowd yelled approval. Dubs came and sat beside me, setting his book bag on the ground next to us. He was a rapper. We talked about his music. He produced and made his own CD. He went on and on about how he wanted to become a professional rapper. He had dreams. After a while, Dubs asked me for a ride home. "Sure." When we got to the car he said, "T, I got a gun in my bag. I didn't want to disrespect you by getting in your car and not let you know." He paused. "Can you still give me a ride home?" This is where street work gets complicated. If I say, "No," I lose credibility. And I need credibility to build relationships with difficult to reach youth. If I say, "Yes," and we get pulled over by the police, we both go to jail. I couldn't let him see me thinking about it too much. I had to decide quickly. "Yes." We got in the car. "Can I put in my CD?" he asked. "Sure." But I barely listened. Instead I prayed, "God please don't let us get pulled over by the police." I stopped at his front door. He got out. "Thanks, T." "You're welcome. And Dub, put that thing away." He laughed. After he was out of the car and in his house I thanked God. He was safely home.